Another Day
by Assonant
Summary: There was a day where John Watson could have met Mike Stamford in the park and gone on to meet the world's only consulting detective and been his best friend. But this is another day... and that didn't happen...
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: i know. I should work on what's online already. This idea wouldn't let me alone though. So don't loathe me too much, please. I'll try to return to the other ones soon, but for now, let me know what you think of this bit.  
Thanks! Hope you enjoy. Please read & review! And now here we go!_**

* * *

**1:**

He was in the battlefield, shouts and people shooting... the adrenaline rushing... pain in the shoulder...

"He's been hit!"

Doctor John H. Watson sat up, breathing heavily from the dream. His heart was beating rapidly and he took a few more deep breaths, trying to relax. After a few moments, he knew going back to sleep wouldn't work, so he sat up and looked towards his cane, resting on a chair on the other side of the small flat. He hated feeling so... so... useless.

He sighed before reading for a bit until the gray light of dawn began to appear. Putting on his robe and making his way to his cane, he put on the kettle for tea. Soon, he was putting his mug of tea and the apple on his desk, taking out his laptop and glancing at his gun as he did so. He had been taught to stay on his toes and well, though it had been foolish to sneak the gun back from the war, he couldn't help it. He couldn't sleep without a weapon... Some security blankets were slightly more lethal than others.

He pushed the thought away and stared at his blog for a few moments, sighing. His therapist was not going to be happy...

And he was right. A few hours later, sitting in the woman's office, she asked, "How's your blog going?"

"Um... good," John tried. "It's going good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?" She jotted something on her pad.

John gave a slight look of irritation, "You just wrote, 'Still has trust issues.'"

The therapist glanced up at him with a smile, "And you read my writing upside down." She looked at him intently, warmly, "See what I mean?"

He just tapped the arm of the chair. What could he say to that?

"John," she said, making him glance at her. "You were a soldier. It's going to take you a while to readjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

He said nothing for a few seconds before sighing and murmuring, "Nothing happens to me."

She sighed and soon, he was able to leave, which he did quite gladly. Once outside, he looked around. The park looked bright and inviting. He really should walk through it, it might make him feel better.

Except for the stares. John didn't feel like dealing with all of that, all of the looks at his cane, all of the _pity_ people had for him. He turned right instead, walking through the streets of London after his appointment with Ella, his therapist. He was tired of feeling so... so... _pathetic. _He hit the ground harder than he needed to with his cane.

He would get some lunch... No, he couldn't really splurge like that. He could make a sandwich at the flat. He didn't feel like taking the Tube though. A nice long walk back to the flat then. He moved towards a crowded curb. It wasn't a busy street and a man in jeans and a t-shirt who was listening to music looked both ways before starting to cross.

It seemed to zoom from nowhere, the silver car. There was absolutely no reason for the car to be speeding that fast, the light was turning red. And John could see the driver... the driver was aiming at the man crossing the street, the man that was near the sidewalk now. The light _was_ red, the man on the sidewalk, and now, so was the car...

Why would someone do that? The driver looked desperate, insane. The detail was noticed with the clarity and realization of a soldier recognizing an enemy and having only a split-second to react.

It was enough.

John didn't even realize he had shouted, had dropped his cane and was running. He tackled the man, knocking both of them into a building. They both managed to get a bit bruised and the man was staring with wide eyes at the car before turning to look at John.

"Are you all right?" John asked, panting, looking at the man worriedly. He was slender and about John's height, with dark hair and eyes, handsome enough, John supposed.

The man narrowed his eyes at John and back at the car that was speeding off. "Is this some elaborate plan to make me like you? Not working and pathetically obvious." There was an obvious accent to his words, one that John knew but couldn't really place at the moment.

"What?" John had no idea what the man was talking about.

The man stared at him intently for a few seconds, just stared, and said, "Oh, now let me guess, you weren't involved?" He rolled his eyes, drawling, "Riiiiight."

John just stared at the man with disbelief. What was he talking about? From the way he was staring at John, it made the doctor a bit irritated. He knew first hand people dealt with near-death experiences in different way and he shrugged it off before he tried to stand. Where was his cane?

Oh. Great. He sighed, seeing it smashed to bits courtesy of the car that had sped by. He limped to the shattered remains of the cane and shut his eyes. Money he didn't have would have to be used for a taxi.

"Really now, all of this? So pathetically elaborate," the man said, narrowing his eyes and dusting himself off. "Am I supposed to be lured in by this poor little army surgeon with a cane? A psychosomatic limp? What, are you trying to give me some sort of challenge, _something _to make me want to take an interest?"

_Poor little army surgeon with a cane?_ John turned, having had enough, and snarled, "You know what? I'm sorry I saved your life. Next time a car comes barrelling away, I'll let it hit you since you're obviously not someone that cares. Good day."

Irritated that he hadn't even gotten a thank you, John left the area, getting a taxi and stopping at a store to buy a cheap walking stick and some things for his lovely new bruises (see if he saved anyone anytime soon...) before going to his flat. He groaned as he entered. The shower hurt his bruises but he knew it was better to be clean than comfortable to make sure he was okay.

Finally, glad that he was just bruised up, the tired doctor collapsed onto his bed, quickly falling asleep.

Across the city, a man stared at a group of dead people, all part of a conspiracy to try and kill him. He wouldn't have been killed by the car, he had determined from the footage of the area, but his ribs would have needed time to recover.

One body that wasn't here... was the one of the doctor from earlier, the army doctor.

He left the room and looked over footage of the event once again.

It was impossible for him to have just done that. There had to be a reason. But what? What did this man, this doctor, what did he want?

He would have to get more information, more data on this, to form a logical conclusion for the action. So first... he would have to learn more about the man. That would be easy enough with his network. Interested, the man began to type.


	2. Chapter 2

**2:**

The gray of dawn and the nightmares weren't what had woken John up this time.

No... this time it had been a noise, a sound, _something_...

Oh. A knock on the door was the sound. John rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. He had actually slept in today, something he hadn't done in a long time. He must have been more tired than he had realized.

It was near nine in the morning, and he stretched. Another knock on the door let him know that he hadn't been dreaming and that yes, someone was outside. But he wasn't expecting any visitors. What was going on? He got his new walking stick and put on his robe before he made his way to his door.

A slim woman with auburn hair a bit past her shoulders stood there. She wore a simple black skirt and white blouse and her light eyes seemed to shine as she smiled at John. "Good morning, Doctor Watson," she said politely.

"Er... good morning," John said, feeling a bit embarrassed. Standing in front of a woman in his robe, not the best first impression.

"I was sent by a business associate," the woman said, smiling at him. "Recently, your CV has come to his attention. He'd like to talk about a potential employment position over lunch. This letter," and here she took out a nice envelope with _Dr. John H. Watson_ written on it in nice handwriting in blue ink, "should contain all pertinent information, if you're interested. I've been told to wait for your answer, though."

John blinked and opened the envelope. Nice stationary, expensive one, even he knew that... he looked at the letter. Lunch at the Savoy at 12:30? Just the idea of the price of the dishes there made him want to wince. He continued reading, getting more questions than answers.

What kind of surgery was this? The skill set... injuries, ability to travel frequently, anonymous clients...

Part of John was very tempted to say, simply, 'No thank you,' and leave it at that. But he had never been able to give up a challenge. He couldn't remember applying for a position like this. And it made him curious.

"Thank you," John said politely. "I'm... interested. I'll be there."

"Would you like a ride or anything, Doctor? That can be arranged, if you would like."

The instincts he had learned to not ignore in the war flared up at that, and John shook his head, "Thank you, but I have a few errands to run this morning. I'll see him there."

"Yes sir. Have a good day." With that, the woman left, John looking after her for a few moments before he shut the door and went to pick out a good interview outfit.

A few hours later, in black trousers, a white shirt and a black tie, John was leaving the Tube at Temple and walking along the embankment, the river to his left before he headed in the direction of the restaurant. In about ten minutes, he found himself at the restaurant. More curious than nervous, John entered the place, looking around before going to the maître d' and saying his name.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, you're right here. This way."

Sighing in relief, John followed the maître d' around the tables until they reached one a bit farther from everyone else. John wondered if this was some odd joke or something, but he sat down, waiting for the other person to arrive.

He didn't have long to wait. A _very_ familiar man in a suit was soon standing across from him, taking off his sunglasses. "I apologize for my tardiness, Doctor Watson."

"You!" John said, looking the man up and down. It wasn't hard to remember the rude man from yesterday, who had been willing to throw out insults and accusations, but not a thank you. The doctor stood up to leave, but the man just raised an eyebrow.

"Doctor, I apologize for the misunderstanding yesterday. And now I must insist you please sit down. People don't usually fool me."

"I. Didn't. Fool. You." John growled, glaring at the man.

"I distinctly recall you fooling me," the man retorted, sitting down.

Frustration taking over quickly, John snapped, "Why are you always accusing me of things? I don't even know you!"

The man looked at him intently once more. "Don't you?" It was asked quietly.

"No!" John said, looking at the ceiling in exasperation... and blinking. He swore he had just seen a flickering... red... it was brief in the lighting, he wasn't really sure, but he didn't think, soldier instincts from wartime kicking in once more as he lunged across the table and tackled the man across from him.

"What do you-!" The man began, when the table went up in splinters. This wasn't just a sniper shot, it was a bloody machine gun! "Oh _come on!_"

"My cane!" John groaned, seeing his poor walking stick in tatters once more.

Shouts were coming from everywhere and both men saw someone dressed in all black running outside.

"What the _hell!_" John shouted at the man as they were all led outside. "Really, _what the hell!_ Every time I see you, something happens!"

"I don't understand it," the man mused, pacing. "I've kept an eye on you all this time. Kept tabs on everything. How did you organize it?"

"_I didn't!"_

The man scoffed and grabbed John's jacket, pulled him closer. "I'll play your game, Doctor. I enjoy distractions. But you will lose."

"What game? I don't even know-"

"Oh must you continue this charade?"

"What charade?" John was annoyed and confused. "You even said I was a war doctor! How the hell would I be playing a game with you when I can't even find a job and I have _no idea who you are!_"

The man looked at John intently once more. "Irrelevant."

"_IRRELEVANT?" _John was at a loss for words. Was this guy completely and utterly _insane?_

"Well, I must be off, was lovely chatting. I'd thank you for saving me again, but really, I wish you'd be creative. A car, then a shoot-up in one of the most public areas in London. You have bravery, I'll grant you that, but it was so _stupid._ I was wrong yesterday but to just do it today was stupidity." With that the man turned to leave.

"Okay, Mr. Suspicious One," John said, rolling his eyes. "Can't I at least get your name?"

The man paused and glanced back. "You know who I am, Doctor Watson."

"Humor me."

"I do hope you're not trying to give me orders." The man's voice was a dangerous growl.

"I just saved your life twice. Humor me, _please._"

The man scoffed, obviously not believing that John wasn't involved with this latest attempt, but said, "Moriarty. James Moriarty. But you can call me Jim. Good day, Doctor." With that, leaving a bewildered and irritated doctor behind, the man walked away.

Without a cane or the ability to really afford one until his next check, it took John much longer to get back to his flat. He was _not_ very pleased when he finally stumbled in. He was still bruised from the day before and now he was just aching too much from a leg injury that wasn't even real! Not caring, John barely managed to shower before collapsing, too tired to dream the horrible dreams.

And across the city, one Jim Moriarty was staring confused at yet another group of dead idiots. John Watson wasn't among them at all, not even the lowest rung.

How had the man fooled him _again?_ He had to be involved in this! He had saved Jim! There had to be some logical reason for it!

Who was the doctor working for? Why wouldn't he just answer Jim's questions!

It was all very frustrating for the man, and he left the room, irritated. Twice now, _twice_, he had been wrong. Not very many people fooled Jim. In fact, the list of people who ever had and were still alive had been zero until John Watson showed up.

Asking the man outright hadn't worked. He kept denying being involved. Jim walked to his computer again, pulling up all of the information he had on the doctor. He seemed so... boring. Graduate of Bart's, went to Afghanistan for a few tours... even his military associates were all boring, normal people.

This made no _sense!_ Jim leaned back in his chair, feeling something he rarely felt: confused. And elated.

Because he had a _distraction, _and by golly, that was just dandy.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

Two days had passed since the incident at the Savoy, and John was in his flat making lunch when a knock sounded on the door.

If it was that woman again, he was shouting, "NO!" at the top of his lungs and bolting the door. He looked more presentable this time though, in jeans and a white jumper, and so he opened the door.

It wasn't that woman.

This time, it was Jim Moriarty himself.

John went to slam the door and would've succeeded if Jim's foot wasn't in the way.

"What?" John demanded, glaring at the man.

"Someone's cranky," Jim said, shoving by and entering the flat. John glared and contemplated leaving, but he wasn't being forced out of _his_ place! He shut the door. "Not much of a flat."

"Well, you're more than welcome to leave," John retorted, going to make himself some tea. He poured it into a cup only to have it snatched from him.

"Thank you," Jim muttered.

John gave him such a loathing look that it was a wonder the man didn't disintegrate on the spot before he turned to make himself another cup of tea. "What do you want?" John grabbed his cane, determined. Twice he had met Jim Moriarty and twice he had had to replace his cane. It was _not_ happening again.

"I'm going to observe you," Jim answered. "I don't know how you were involved, I brought quite a few rivals to the ground in the past few days, but you're still here."

"For the love of..." John gave him a look and said, "Fine. Whatever. I don't care." He made himself a sandwich and went to his computer. He turned to get his tea and when he turned back, the sandwich was gone.

_Not worth it, not worth it, _John thought to himself, making another sandwich and returning to his computer. He looked over some emails with old mates and stared at his blog. What could he write? Shrugging, he moved to another window, surfing through the job listings and trying to ignore the eyes watching him.

"All right, I can't take it," Jim said, watching John fill out a resume.

"Can't... take what?" John asked despite himself, looking at the man, who was now beside him.

"THAT." Jim pointed to John's hands on the keyboard. "Two fingers to type? Ugh. No."

John rolled his eyes and continued to type.

"Stop it!" Jim grabbed his hands.

"Get off!" John went to push him and the two fought for a bit, shouting rather loudly before they both heard shouting from the other flats... and smelled something, heard things...

Gasoline. _FIRE._

Jim looked at John, hands pinned beneath his own on the laptop keyboard. There was no way possible for this to be the work of the doctor.

Said doctor was looking at him and both men quickly stood. Jim touched the door and cursed. "It's in the hall already. Fast."

"Window," John said, standing immediately, opening it from the side. Jim was on the other wall. Remembering the other times he had been with Jim and things happened, John took his pillow and sheets and threw them out first.

As he had thought, shots rang out and shouting did, along with sirens. "Go!" John commanded, shoving Jim before him and jumping right after.

BAM. Right on the bins. Both men groaned but managed to roll off the bins. John pushed Jim behind one, earning a yelp of protest as he shoved himself in the small spot too.

"What-" Jim began.

"Shut up," John retorted, looking all around. They weren't using rifles, he was sure of that... Aha! He could see one person, standing and trying to aim, and there was another, kneeling and ready. A distraction... perfect. Steadying himself, he pulled his gun from his waistband and fired at the ground directly in front of the kneeling man, sending some of the brick wall to crumble. At the jump, he shot again, twice, killing the two men he had seen.

"Take out Moriarty's guard!" Someone shouted.

John looked at Jim. "Your guard is taking an awfully long time to get here."

"Oh thank you, ignorant member of the masses. I'm well aware of that fact. I don't know where they are." Jim didn't look nervous or ruffled, simply irritated. "I don't feel like getting involved. I do hate getting my hands dirty. Where are those idiots?"

"Dissent in the ranks?" John asked, smirking. "I guess someone is around, they're freaking out. I hope he gets here soon."

"You and I both," Jim muttered, running his hands through his hair before pausing. "My sunglasses were in your flat."

"Your sunglasses?" John looked at him, twitching. "How about the fact you owe me three sodding canes you bloody lunatic? Every time I've seen you, I've been accused of something or other and now I'm somehow in the middle of a firefight in BLOODY LONDON!"

"Well, yes, firefights are bloody," Jim said, nodding.

John twitched, repressing the urge to throw the vexing man into the middle of the shooting going on that was hitting the rubbish bin. Every so often, the doctor would duck out and take out someone with a shot, but he sighed after doing it three times, "I don't have enough shots for this. Where the hell are your guards?"

Jim shrugged, "I don't… ah, one is over there, on that rooftop." He indicated the man.

And if it wasn't for John grabbing his hand and pulling him down, there would have been a bullet in it.

"Oh." Jim said it calmly. "I see now. No wonder they found me so easily. They were with me all of the time. Doctor, I do believe I have been betrayed."

"Thank you for stating the obvious," John shouted, unable to help himself.

Jim managed to get up into a crouching position and take out a gun himself. "This is so tiresome," he grumbled, aiming and shooting at the guard that had aimed at him. The man yelped and grasped at his hand. "You know, when the others get back from abroad, I will have to have serious words about our hiring policies."

"Wait, are you telling me all your current guards are busy shooting at-" John winced as some gravel landed near his foot. "Shooting at us?"

"Even a simpleton like you should be able to figure that out," Jim answered, calmly aiming and shooting once more.

"But they said there was a guard," John said, thinking. "They said to take out your guard…" John trailed off as he realized who the shooters had been talking about. Oh no. No, no and _no. _They couldn't think that, could they?

"Finally figured it out?" Jim inquired. "What's it like in your tiny mind if it took that long? Yes, they think you're my guard." He aimed and shot once more. "I can't fathom why they would do this. I pay them a decent amount and I haven't even killed many of them when they make a mistake. And now look, they're panicking and drawing attention _and_ my suit is going to probably need to be replaced."

Was this some sick joke? John didn't have time to deal with it. "Will you stop waxing eloquent complaints and move your arse?"

Jim turned and looked at John, raising an eyebrow. "You're looking at my arse?"

"NO!"

"At a time like this?"

"I'm not looking at your-!"

"But you just-"

John noticed a lull. Reloading, out of ammo, something. "Move, move, move!" He grabbed Jim and shoved him in the front, the two running towards a car.

The police were too busy with the fire and people and shootings to be bothered with them taking a car. "In," Jim snapped, picking the lock in a few seconds. John took a second to be impressed. "GET IN!" The man roared, causing John to quickly run to the passenger seat.

"Give me your gun," John said in a rush, lowering his window. Jim slapped his gun into John's hand and the doctor was shooting.

A few seconds later, he had to adjust his aim to compensate for movement, but they were gone. Jim was driving like a maniac and soon, they were farther away from the carnage than John had thought possible for a short amount of time.

They got out of the car when they were in a different area of the city and took the Tube. John was just numbly following at this point while Jim led on, silent. His flat was gone. It wasn't really sinking in. He had no work and no flat. He, Doctor John Watson, was homeless and had nothing but the little bit in his wallet, his cell phone and his gun. And the clothes on his back.

"Oh stop thinking," Jim snapped from in front of him. "It's bothersome. We can't go to my place so we'll be going to a hotel. Then I'll get some supplies to solve this mutiny issue and we'll be fine."

John just looked at Jim and said, forcing himself to keep calm, "What do you mean _we_?"

"Simple. You're a target now as well. Do you think that they'll listen to an explanation or shoot first?" Jim looked at John with a look that was clearly full of disdain. "Do you suppose I like being stuck with someone who can't even type properly?"

"Yeah well, at least my track record of keeping us alive is higher than yours. What would you have done, been in some little hideout?"

"I never would have _been_ in those locations if you hadn't gotten involved in the first place," Jim retorted.

"Fine then," John snapped. "When this is over, we won't bother each other again."

"Very well." They reached a hotel that didn't look like one Jim would normally stay in. The man paid and John forced himself to not say or offer anything. It wasn't charity. The man was the reason all of this insanity had even happened in the first place. And though the man in the messed-up suit didn't _seem_ shaken up, John knew people had different reactions.

"I'll take the first watch," John said, as they entered their room... which had one bed. He pulled a chair near the window, but not in front of it. "Don't sleep on the bed."

Jim gave him a strange look, "Then where am I supposed to sleep?" He looked at the floor and back at John with a look that made it clear he wasn't sleeping on the plain floor.

John rolled his eyes and pulled the mattress to the floor, under the window. "Harder to be a target. I'll wake you in a few hours." He paused and then asked, "What do you do, anyway? You have guards..."

"I'm a consultant," Jim said simply, laying down. "People come to me with problems and I solve them by any means necessary." He looked at John intently. "No looking at my arse."

"I wasn't looking at your-!"

"Night." Jim turned and soon was snoring. John shook his head and looked out the window. Consultant. Right. What kind of consultant was Jim Moriarty that had people turning against him and him needing guards?

Sighing, John decided it didn't really matter at this point. At least _something _was happening in his life now. The thought made him smile ruefully as he looked at the clock in the hotel room and kept watch for people that might want to kill them.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

It was early the next morning and John was irritated and exhausted. He had tried to wake Jim up, but for that he might as well have told a log to do the same thing.

He had left Jim a note stating he would be right back. On their mad rush yesterday, John was relatively sure he had seen a cafe near where they were. His eyes had not failed him; it wasn't a far walk at all, perhaps five minutes. He returned with some coffee and breakfast. Jim was still sound asleep.

They couldn't keep doing this. John wasn't exactly wealthy. Buying food all the time would put a dent in the wallet. He opened one of the cups and finally, the other man blinked and looked around.

"Coffee," Jim grunted, grabbing the cup from John.

"Yes, coffee, you berk," John grumbled, glowering. "Breakfast too."

"It's daylight." Jim looked confusedly out the window and at the clock before looking at John. "I thought you said we were going to take watches."

"_You didn't want to wake up,"_ John growled, glaring at Jim. "Now I'm going to get a few hours of sleep. Wake me in four hours. Earlier if something comes up."

Jim looked at the breakfast and back at John, "Your food will be cold."

A shrug, "I've had worse." With that, the doctor turned to the mattress on the floor and managed to fall into a light doze.

For a few moments, Jim Moriarty didn't really know what to think. Breakfast and coffee without being told to? He hadn't ever had that. Not like his mum had been the most demonstrative person of parental affection, and his father had run off the moment he learned about the pregnancy.

But when life gives you lemons, make lemonade! Or when life makes you brilliant and surrounded by idiots, make sure you know how to react well. Jim had observed the environment he had grown up in well, had seen how more people were scared of the criminals to report them to the cops. And had seen how the more successful people tended to never be around when things happened.

Be the puppet-master, never the puppet.

So why did breakfast matter? Just a small matter, he supposed, but it felt nice, having something without having had to do it himself. Though he wouldn't have picked a breakfast sandwich, but it wasn't as if he could really protest, knowing that there weren't many options around for breakfast.

He hadn't had an actual breakfast besides toast and coffee in ages, though. Running a criminal syndicate kept one rather busy, especially without any other distractions. If the doctor hadn't been involved in all of this... if those imbeciles had tried to get him at home, he would have left, just like he had at John's flat. Then he would have called Sebastian Moran. The man enjoyed his job at keeping order, Jim knew that. He would revel in this.

And then the drug trafficking issue in Columbia would have probably fallen apart without that support and that would not be a fun issue to deal with. But well, make lemonade! Jim would have been alive and thus able to fix the issue eventually.

Except now it might not have to come to that. He looked at the sleeping doctor. John Watson, in his irritation, had been right. His track record of keeping Jim alive was better than most of the people that Jim had paid for that job.

He would have to pay the doctor back for his services. Perhaps the overall checks of the guards that had attempted this coup d'etat would do for payment when this was finished. Yes. That would do the job quite nicely. Although that could just be a sign-on bonus...

Having someone that knew how to react under pressure and unexpectedly was a good thing. Jim finished his sandwich, thinking about this for a few seconds before turning his thoughts away from the sleeping doctor to their situation. These imbeciles... Jim chuckled as he went through his phone information. As if he wouldn't have their information on hand.

As if he wouldn't know who had betrayed him and react. He took the notepad from the hotel room and began to write. His handwriting was neat and tidy, almost more like calligraphy than normal writing. He jotted quickly, his mind moving faster than his hands and it made the man irritated that he didn't have a computer.

Addresses, names, associates, friends, family... Jim allowed the doctor to sleep as he planned and thought the best way to make those fools regret their actions. Getting weapons and the like wouldn't be difficult, it was just thinking what was the best message to send out to the rest of the dolts that might get ideas that was.

He continued to write until John woke up. The doctor ate his cold breakfast before quickly getting as ready for the day as he could. He looked over at the various notes littering the bed and back at Jim. "Been busy then?"

"Yes. When you're ready we can go. We have a lot to get done." Jim stretched, reminding John a bit of a cat.

"Like what?"

Jim gave him a look, "Are all people this dull? Goodness. We have to acquire supplies. Then we have to find these people." He waved a piece of paper. "They shouldn't be hard. Then we take them out. The others will try to scatter, but people _are_ idiots. They'll go to where they feel safest. It really shouldn't take more than three days if we hurry."

John tried to ignore the sinking feeling that he was just a hit man right now. He mentally thought of Afghanistan, thought of the things he had to do during a time of war, during a time of kill or be killed. These people weren't after him due to culture or beliefs or anything. It was just sheer stupidity, them thinking something that wasn't the case. But Jim was right: attempting to reason just would not work. And John knew it was better to strike first, to catch them off guard.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

Between the Tube and cab rides, John had lost track of where in London they were. It was as if Jim had a mental map of the city or something because they were not exactly taking their time. In the span of three hours, they were in someone's house.

John didn't want to think about what these people did for money. The house had an easy two or three families living within it, but he wouldn't have known that. He only knew it because Jim had muttered it to him on their way. It was three floors and large compared to some houses in the neighborhood, but nowhere near the size of a manor or even a warehouse.

There were two people in the house when they entered. One was an old man, his hair gray and grizzled, his dark brown eyes seeming to look into everyone that entered the place. The other was a teen or perhaps someone just out of school. Either way, much younger than the old man that was there, looking at them.

Jim followed the teen into another room while John stayed with the older man, who looked at him intently for a few seconds, but said nothing. The doctor opted to look around the room instead. There were papers and the like everywhere, machines and screens...

Counterfeiting. This was a counterfeiting operation headquarters.

John didn't like that, not really. He didn't like the idea of being associated with criminals. "Consultant," that had been what Jim had said he did. But John wondered if he had just asked the wrong question. So maybe the right question was what _kind_ of consultant?

Not that it would really matter at this point. Right now, he was stuck with Jim Moriarty. He just hoped it wouldn't be for long.

The older man coughed, causing John to look back at him and blink a few times as he stared at the man's foot. It looked _horrible._ The entire heel was coated in black. Gangrene. It was obvious.

"Have you had anyone look at your foot?" John inquired, looking at the older man.

He made a distasteful face, "Don't like hospitals."

"Your foot needs treatment. If you keep it like that, it's going to spread. Blood poisoning and the like. Your foot might need removal, perhaps most of your leg. I don't know, it depends on how much your veins have clotted or collapsed due to the invasion…" The doctor was already by the man's foot, examining it carefully.

"What are you, a doc or something?" The old man asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I am," John retorted. He looked over the foot and back at the man, his eyes grave.

The man, on the other hand, had an odd mixture of pleased and worried on his face. "You're a doctor?" He asked this seriously now, looking at John with skepticism and hope.

"Yes…"

"Then fix me up."

"_What?_ This place isn't sterile or anything, I can't just-!" John began to protest hotly when Jim's voice spoke behind him.

"Afghanistan wasn't the most sterile of environments either, yet you still managed."

John turned to see the other man holding rather large bag and a set of car keys. At that moment, the doctor knew it would be better to just not ask. The teen looked interested and said, "He's a doc?"

"Yes," Jim answered. "But you do have a valid point, not about the environment, but the tools. Can't expect a surgeon to operate without tools."

"We can get that," the teen said immediately. "Gramps, if we get all that, please let the doctor help you? _Please?"_

The old man gave a glower at the boy but grumbled assent as he looked at John.

"Please," the teen said, turning to Jim now. "Please, sir, just be patient. One hour, please, just stay for one hour, I'll get whatever your doctor needs, I'll do whatever you want. _Please?_"

Jim glanced at John. "Well, doctor? What will you need?"

Part of John wanted to yell at the consultant. Was he just volunteering John for this? Perhaps the teen noticed, because he turned to John. "Please?"

He just rubbed his face for a few seconds before stating, "I'm going to need anesthesia, a good place to operate and sterilize things, and tools. Bone saw, scalpel, the works."

"Leave it to me." The teen was off before John or Jim could speak.

Jim stretched, relaxing and playing with his phone. John managed to keep himself from being too irritated due to the fact he was more worried about this random surgery. All too soon, he felt, the teen had returned with a bunch of surgery tools.

He was very nervous when it came to the medicines; after all, he was a surgeon, not an anesthesiologist. But he laid the elderly man on a table in the back after making sure everything was clean and tidy...

The bravery of the soldier came through then, as did the reassurance of the doctor. This was instinct, his nerves and worries pushed to the side. "You'll be fine," he said, as the man's eyes closed. He wasn't used to a delicate operation by himself, because yes, taking a leg off _was_ delicate. John had to make sure the gangrene didn't spread too far up, and he didn't the old man to bleed to death. He would have to close veins, remove muscle, all of that.

It took hours, about seven hours, and no one disturbed him once during it. Finally, he finished. The man's leg would still need care due to the stitches and the like, but finally, all was well.

"How do you feel," John inquired, as the older man woke up.

"I... I feel sleepy..." the older man said, blinking wearily. "And it hurts."

John nodded, "That'll happen for a few days. You're going to need to work out, do therapy. We'll try to stop by, make sure things are going well."

The older man nodded, looking at John who turned to leave. "Doctor."

"Hm?"

"I'm Lysander Stark," the man said, looking at him. "Tell that man out there that there's still someone for hire around. He's in Streatham, your associate will be able to find him. His name is George Burnwell. Tell him that Colonel Lysander Stark wants him to help you, that I owe you a favor. He'll pay it back for me."

John nodded, "I'll do that. Thank you, Colonel."

"Thank _you_, Doctor."

"Doc?" a room full of worried faces.

"He's fine, in pain, though that's to be expected," John said, seeing Jim look over. He appeared bored, but the others in the room appeared relieved. "We'll be by in a few days, but I'll need you to help him with his physical therapy and the like."

Nods as John explained what would need doing and he felt embarrassed by how much they kept thanking him. Finally, he and Jim, after having dinner with them, left.

"He gave me a name," John said as Jim pulled out his phone. "George Burnwell."

Jim looked at John, raising an eyebrow, "Really? He'll come out of retirement? He must owe Stark a great deal then. Well, we've no time to waste, the more guns for this, the better." He led the way to a small, used car that didn't draw much attention and the two were off towards the southern part of London.


End file.
